


what magic has wrought

by blue--phantom (twilightscribe)



Series: and comes the storm [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Comfort, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Patch 4.0: Stormblood Spoilers, Romantic Fluff, Two Shot, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 02:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17952206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightscribe/pseuds/blue--phantom
Summary: Magnai does not, really, comprehend why Wyn must face Sri Lakshmi alone, nor what he himself needs protection from. All hedoesknow is that Wyn seems almost terrifyinglyusedto bearing the full weight of the known world upon his shoulders.





	what magic has wrought

If there is one thing that Magnai is unused to feeling, it’s uselessness.

It’s not the Scions’ hold on him that stops him – though all three of them grab him to stop him from charging after Sri Lakshmi and attempting to cleave her in two with his axe.

Rather, it’s the look of sheer brokenhearted determination on Wyn’s face, the way that he lays a gentle hand against Magnai’s chest, leaning up to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. When he pulls back, his eyes are remarkably bright and the smile on his face does not quite reach his eyes.

“You cannot follow me.”

There is a snarl lodged in his throat, “I–”

“Please. For me.”

His heart twists painfully in his chest, throat tightening because Wyn sounds so utterly broken in that moment. But before Magnai can say anything more – that he doesn’t need protection, that he’s strong enough for both of them – Wyn is already pulling away, moving deeper into the cave.

Before he vanishes from sight, a shimmering blue light flickers into being across the width of the cave.

Though he knows it useless, he tears free of the Scions’ grasp with a truly monstrous snarl and smashes his fist into the newly formed barrier.

Blood trickles down his knuckles. The pain does little to dull the feelings of rage and _helplessness_ curdling within him.

He is the reigning khan of the Oronir and the formerly long-standing khagan of the Steppe. Never has he encountered a foe that could not be felled by his skill in battle and the blade of his axe. Not until Wyn. Not till this moment.

The slight Elezen boy, Alphinaud, speaks eventually, softly and not without a little bit of hesitancy, “We can do naught but wait. We would only be a hindrance to Wyn in the fight, for none of us are gifted with the Echo.”

A growl rumbles low in Magnai’s chest. Though his hand screams its protest, he tightens both into fists and glares at the barrier barring his way from joining his Nhaama. His place is at Wyn’s side, not waiting like a small child for their parents to return from the Naadam.

“I hate to admit it, but Alphinaud is right,” Lyse says. Her jaw is set in a firm line, her mouth thin, but she meets Magnai’s sharp look with only a trace of hesitancy. “Wyn cannot fight a primal and protect us at the same time. I’m… I’m sorry, Magnai. But this is something that he must do alone.”

Were he a lesser man, with weak control, he would lash out in his anger at her. But he is greater than his anger and instead turns his gaze back to the barrier. With only a glance at his hand – bloody, bruised, likely broken – he crosses his arms and stands, staring and waiting.

It’s a new, strangely alien feeling for him. Quickly, Magnai comes to hate it.

He _loathes_ feeling helpless.

“All we can do is wait and pray that Wyn is victorious.”

“Of course he will be,” Lyse’s voice is confident, reassuring. “This is Wyn we’re talking about. He will return, victory in hand just as he always does.”

_But know that I will kill your god, if I must._

The words echo loudly within Magnai’s head. Spoken with such confidence and assurance that he had not heard from his love before. It had been enough, in that moment, to arrest him and for him to regard Wyn much the way he had when he emerged victorious in the Naadam all those moons before – with a growing sense of awe and a dawning pain to see how remote he could be.

It had been that remoteness that he had sought to reach out to, to soothe and provide much needed warmth. Wyn had always seemed rather aloof, a part of yet removed from his companions. There was a carefully hidden vulnerability there, which had reached out to him – that made it clear that Wyn _needed_ him.

But that’s not the case now, is it?

The tightness of his throat won’t go away, growing worse as time slowly ticks by. His hand aches, a further reminder of how… how _useless_ he really is.

Behind him, the Scions murmur quietly amongst themselves. To them, this is little more than a matter of routine and they seem almost blithely unaware of the crisis going on within Magnai.

So many years spent training, fighting, preparing himself to _prove_ that he was worthy of his Nhaama… all of that proves to be worth _nothing_ in this moment. When it mattered most, he could not be there for him.

_For me_.

He’s well aware of the nightmares that frequently plague Wyn’s sleep. Their journey from his home in Othard to the foreign city-states of Eorzea had not been without incident; Magnai had been there through the aftermath of many a restless, disturbing night. Wyn had been desperate for his touch and presence, then. But not now.

The unfamiliar burn of bile at the back of his throat could almost be startling. More so, is the burn at the corners of his eyes. Raising his trembling, bloodied hand, Magnai presses his fingers to the corner of his eye and stares blankly at the remnants of tears which cling to the skin.

For several moments, the sight does not completely register. It has been such a long time since he last cried – when he was still a very young boy who did not yet fully comprehend the harshness of the world around him. Since then, he has never shed a tear – not even when recovering from duels with Sadu upon the Steppe as he searched for his Nhaama.

Magnai stands there, staring silently at his bloodied hand, tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

It’s not just the helplessness causing him to feel thus; nor the tired resignation he had seen in Wyn’s eyes as he had pulled away from him. But there is also a rage coalescing deep within him, that threatens to eat away at his rapidly fraying control.

Leaving Othard, it had seemed simple: he would remain at his Nhaama’s side. He realizes now, though, that he underestimated the scope of _just_ what Wyn’s responsibilities include. Magnai does not, really, comprehend why Wyn must face Sri Lakshmi alone, nor what he himself needs protection from. All he _does_ know is that Wyn seems almost terrifyingly _used_ to bearing the full weight of the known world upon his shoulders.

Magnai crosses his arms once more, his hand still throbbing, and continues to scowl at the barrier which stands between him and Wyn.

He hates waiting, almost as much as he hates feeling helpless.

It’s a terribly alien feeling.

 

 

 

Hours pass before there’s a sign.

It sounds as though a gong has been rung, the sound echoing loudly through the tunnel and resonating deep within Magnai’s bones. What follows is a blast of pure, white light that nearly blinds him and floods the tunnel before rapidly fading.

The barrier flickers, then vanishes.

Before any of the Scions can stop him, Magnai breaks into a run, plunging deeper into the cave system. He doesn’t pause, even as their shouts of surprise echo after him. To him, they matter little.

His blood rushes in his veins, anxiety and rage coalescing together and there’s another new feeling joining them: fear.

Though he trusts in Wyn’s abilities, has seen them in action more than once and even against him, there is that not-so-small part of him which knows that Wyn is more than a little fragile. True, he hides it well and wears a mask of stoic aloofness, but there is no hiding from him – not from Magnai, whose heart and destiny are tied so closely to him.

Time seems to pass strangely, it feels like longer than it actually takes for him to emerge from the tunnel into a brightly lit, strangely decorated chamber with a large, raised platform at its centre. His heart leaps into his throat, thuds against the lump there.

Alone now, Wyn stands at the centre of the platform, his back to Magnai.

Whatever he might say, the words are lodged somewhere in his throat. His pace slows, somewhat, as he makes his way onto the platform, towards Wyn. He knows not what to say and, perhaps wisely, chooses to say nothing as he approaches.

Before Wyn can turn to him, Magnai wraps his arms around his slight form, pulling him close and holding him tight. He buries his face into the top of Wyn’s head, breathing heavily and not caring about the hair that tickles his nose.

Wyn smells of exertion – of sweat and that strangely metallic tang that Magnai recognizes well as being a remnant of _magic_. His clothes are damp and he can’t quite hide a wince as Magnai holds him tight, but he all too quickly melts into the touch, sagging against Magnai’s larger build.

Though his hand still throbs, Magnai ignores it, focusing on the man in his arms and the sheer amount of relief he feels that _he’s here, he’s alive_. It’s tempered by the knowledge that there are, apparently, places that he cannot follow Wyn, but he cares not; all that matters right then is that Wyn is there now and wants him.


End file.
